


Frosted Glass

by Strigoi17



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Drugs, M/M, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigoi17/pseuds/Strigoi17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Komaeda’s sick and high off his medicine. Hinata doesn’t know what to do with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frosted Glass

The new medicine has a funny effect on him, but you’re not sure if it’s the medicine itself or the way it reacts with his anti-psychotics.

He’s had the Haloperidol for months, and they hadn’t really had any visible improvement on him — or at least, any that you had noticed. He still wasn’t sleeping enough, still wasn’t eating enough, and he would still disappear for hours on end without warning or reason. He kept taking them, though, because he “knew it would work out eventually.” Komaeda knew and hoped and fully believed they would fix him, even as they didn’t.

Even in the hospital he was unpredictable. Between chemo sessions and whenever you would slip away for a snack or a shower, Komaeda would wake from his feigned sleep and detach his IV; leaving blood stained sheets and a tube leaking Morphine, he would adventure into the hospital, alone and clad only in his green plaid pajama pants. More often than not, you would find him in the nursery; each time you asked him why, and each time he would only reply that watching life bloom so early was too beautiful for him to explain.

When he finally fell into remission and was discharged, they only gave him more pills. Pills to help his nausea; pills to help him sleep; vitamins to stop his hair from thinning out any more. You don’t have to remind him to take them, and for this you’re grateful. If it were up to you, he wouldn’t be taking them at all — he would be better, miraculously, without having to choke down a handful of pills every night.

The doctors said, before you took him home, that he wouldn’t be able to live alone for a while. They offer home-visit nurses, but your reaction is immediate.

“That won’t be necessary,” you say. “He lives with me.”

Even though, at that point, he didn’t.

By the time you’ve both settled into your car, he agrees without you even asking. Eyelids purple with exhaustion, he leans his head against the passenger window and smiles at you with chapped lips. “If you actually want me to, I’d like to.”

Now, hours later, you hover over him like a mother does her child. He’s laid up in your bed, bundled in your mother’s quilt, and his skin looks ivory against your pillow. In the hospital, he was so thin you couldn’t bring yourself to touch him. Now, his cheeks have filled out and the tip of his nose has regained its pink. He’s not sick anymore, necessarily, but you can see how worn out he is; you can see the way the medicine stuns his nervous system and wipes him out cold.

Though he’s not quite asleep, you know he wouldn’t answer if you whispered his name across the mattress. His eyes are glazed over, and the only light you can see in them is the TV as it reflects. Just after dinner, he started complaining of a headache; before dessert was over, it had worsened to the point where he needed to lay down. Using the excuse of cleaning up dinner, you did a quick Google search of the side-effects of every pill he had taken, and realize it was probably his anti-nausea medication.

Now, sitting beside him and watching him rock between sleep and consciousness, you wonder if you’d rather have him throwing up all night. At least, then, he would be able to tell you how to help.

Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to regret inviting him to share your apartment. There were times, yes, when he scared you; there are times when he petrified you, and times when you don’t want to be near him at all. Though few and far between, they do exist; they hibernate in the wrinkles of your relationship, where neither of you ever dare to look.

You raise a hand to smooth his bangs away from his eyes, and thank god when his hair doesn’t fall out in your fingers like it used to. You know he doesn’t mean to scare you, despite your gnawing conscience. You know he only does it because he’s sick in more ways than one.

Most of him is hidden by the blanket, except for his face. Chin-up, you can see all of him as his eyelids droop and his mouth hangs slightly open. Your curtains are drawn, but a gummy slice of moonlight tumbles through the window and falls directly over his cheek. You can’t tell if he understands what’s happening at all, but when your skin touches his, he swallows and turns his head towards you.

You had seen it on TV and in movies; sometimes, when medicines mixed, it had an overwhelming effect on the person taking them. You didn’t know much about his medicines at all, exactly, but you knew what Google could tell you, and you knew that this wasn’t a good sign.

“Hajime,” His voice is like glass just before you step on it. “I love you more than anyone in the world.”

You stop in your tracks, let your head tilt onto its side. Your smile is rough, unfinished, and you’re happy it’s so dark. “It’s really late. Get back to bed.”

His eyelids fall closed, and his cheeks crinkle when he grins. His voice gets stronger as he speaks, but he never sounds truly awake. You’re beginning to think he took extra pain medicine. “Am I not worth your time, Hajime?”

“Just go to sleep, would you?” You lean down next to him, laying back from your sitting position. Without blankets, you curl up against his form through the comforter. Cuddling isn’t a thing you initiate, at least often, but as soon as you shift your hip up next to his he takes his cue. When he turns to you, his form melds against your side, a wax mold fitted perfectly for your curves. His nose is cold in the crook of your neck.

Somehow, you don’t think he ever went back to sleep.

—

You’re woken by his voice. It slithers into your dreams, snatches you from a world you can’t remember once you’re back on your mattress.

His voice is the first thing you register; it’s soft against the slope of your neck as he moans your name. Feeling comes stumbling back to you when he bites you, quick and sharp, and his weight is suddenly on top of you; all of your senses flood to you at once. The hard points of his hips are rocking down onto you, and it makes your heart beat faster than your eyelids can open. His smell wraps around you, crisp as autumn air, and you feel your thigh muscles tense.

He’s still weak, even as he ruts his cock against yours through your pants and sends electricity sprinting down into your hips. His hips stall every so often, and the fingers on your shoulders keep him from falling. You can’t see much but his silhouette, but even that reminds you how much weight he’d lost in the two months chemotherapy had taken from the both of you.

You don’t know if he’s trying too hard or if he honestly doesn’t know what he’s doing; one hand falls, slips up into your shirt and ghosts his nails across the peppering of hair on your stomach. You gasp, and he takes the moment to lean down and kiss you. His words are hot and slick when he begs against your lips, pleads for you to oh god, please, fuck him, he deserves to be fucked raw, you haven’t touched him in months and it must be because of how filthy the cancer’s made him.

Your mind finally lets you move; you shudder into motion with a disapproving grunt of “Nagito.” Sitting up, you knock him back with ease — he falls onto his back, knees bent together and hand between his legs. You watch him as he licks his lips and shivers; hiswrist flicks once against his erection. He lets out a high, sweet moan, lets his head tip back onto his shoulders.

He’s completely naked; he’s so thin he looks like you might break him if you do what he asks. You can see every notch of his ribcage on his torso, and there’s a thin arrow of smokey grey-white hair that dips down to where his hand kneads his already hard cock.

It takes you one awkward moment to shuck off your pants and your shirt; Komaeda fills the silence with light panting and desperate requests. “Please, Hajime, please, I’m so filthy, teach me how to not be. Please fuck me, god, oh, please —”

“What’s your name, again?” You raise your brow, letting your hand fall over Komaeda’s.

“N-Nagito.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m — I’m yours to do whatever you want with, of course!”

Your gasps tangle together when you lean over him, lips hovering above his, dangerously close. Below you, his eyes are still glassy and wide; his eyebrows tip up as he whispers a weak, “Please…”

He quiets when you kiss him. It’s rough, maybe unfairly so, but when you suck on his lower lip his hips cant up into yours and his nails scrape your back. It kindles a moan in your throat, and when you pull away he whines; it stops when you bite his neck, hard, and he dissolves.

“What a slut.” Your voice is rough, just as your smile had been earlier. “You’ve just been waiting for this forever, haven’t you? What the hell is even wrong with you?”

“I stayed alive for you,” He blurts. “I’m so pathetic that I stayed alive just so you would touch me again.”

You can’t think of a reply; to fill the gap, you raise a hand and drag your nails down his stomach. Thick pink lines follow your fingers, but you mentally swear to kiss them later.

Preparation is quick; the lube had sat in your drawer for months, untouched and now icy cold as you poured it out onto your fingers. He flinches when you slip your digit into him, probably from the cold, but you barely give him time to adjust; you’re scissoring him within moments. He writhes above you, giving small, labored pants. They tumble away to squeaks when your ring finger creeps in around your index and middle, and you roll your eyes at him — had he grown that tight in the hospital?

The sudden thought brings another abrupt wave of heat through your torso, even as you think about how ludicrous it is.

You feel bad, just a little, for taking advantage of him like this, but when you stall, his hands raise up and grip your face. His nails dig into the soft skin behind your ears, and his hips rut upwards around your fingers.

Mild hesitation slips away as you shift over him. Against your palms, his thighs are warm; you spread them open and dip your head low. Tilting him upward with one hand, you drag your tongue along his underside. His hips wriggle and he bites the meat of his palm, struggling to sit up and watch you.

The curve of his inner thigh is soft in your teeth, and the way he outright screams only has you biting harder. Blood tingles in your mouth, and with the hand holding his leg to the side you scrape your nails across his skin.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his hands jerk into the air and stall. They waver back and forth as he thinks, before he threads them through your hair. He tries to pull, just like he tries each time, but his fingers slip right across your scalp. After two failed attempts, he settles with raking his nails across your scalp.

“Hajime, please,” He whimpers, “I don’t know what else to do, please fuck me, I need you inside of me, please —”  
“What?” Rolling your eyes, you sit up, let his thighs fall on either side of your hips. “Too good for foreplay?”

“N-No!” He shakes his head, eyes wide. “No, of course — no, I just need you so bad, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to speak to someone as perfect as you, I’m an idiot, punish me if you wish.”

Firm fingers take Komaeda’s hips and yank him forward, dragging the sheets as he slides toward you. His hands fall and ring around your neck, and he smiles up at you. “I love you, Hajime.”

“Mm.” You nod, giving a quick sigh. You mean the words to be quick, but you trip over them and they sound awkward and too genuine. “I-I love you too.”

Hiding your pink cheeks, you immediately thrust inside of him in one quick, smooth movement.

You only slip in a few inches, but the warmth is immediate; heat and lust collect in your stomach as he mewls, scratching at your neck and shivering as you buck again, slipping deeper into him. Each time you go deeper, and each time he moans a little louder, until you’re balls-deep inside of him and he’s screaming your name.

You fuck him for hours. His voice cracks each time you hit his prostate, but after a while he can’t scream anymore. His voice turns raspy and he wastes away into bite marks, hoarse pants and slurred speech.

When you orgasm, he makes you do it inside of him. You get scared, for a moment, because when you do he reaches his own, and he starts gasping. His breathing is jagged, labored, and he draws blood when his nails digs into your back. Your own after-glow dissipates before his even starts, because you’re petrified that you’ve broken him, that you’ve hurt him, you knew that was a bad idea and now this is all your fault.

He calms down and immediately brings you closer. His arms are weak, shaking, but you follow their guidance regardless. Beneath your cheek, his chest is heaving and raspy. He sounds hollow, like the only thing in his chest is his heart and his breath.

He’s out before you can muster up anything to say. Your brain turns in exhaustive circles, grappling for the words to calm both of you, but you look up to ask him how he feels his eyes are closed and his head is turned to the side. Komaeda’s taller than you, but now he seems small and made of frosted glass.

You wake with an aching back and jittery nerves. Detangling your limbs from his isn’t a task, but you’re immediately cold once you do. Standing, you lean back and hear your bones crack; your neck stings and you can feel the raw skin as you stretch. A decision sets in your mind, and you walk to the kitchen shivering and naked.

He’s awake by the time you bring back breakfast; a meager meal for two, microwave pancakes and jelly toast. You don’t let him speak, but immediately say what’s been on your mind since you woke up.

“We’re bringing you back to the doctor today.”

“Huh?” He squints up at you, blinking and dazed. He must have just woken up moments ago.

“You need to get your medicine changed again, you were being ridiculous last night.”

“I don’t remember it,” He admits. “But I think it was just a first-time thing, medicine does that often.”

“Well, I don’t like it.” You shrug, placing the food on your bedside table. “And I’m taking care of you, so we’re going back today.”

Komaeda doesn’t speak. He sighs, heavily, and crawls across the bed; you watch him wince as he climbs into your lap, but you don’t comment on it. “Was it that much of a problem? Really?”

His skin is warm against yours. Thin fingers creep down your arm, thread through yours, and bring both of your hands into your laps. “Yes.” You grunt. “It was.”

“Mmmmn.” He shifts his hips, leans his cheek on your shoulder. “So you fucked me even though you knew I wasn’t thinking straight?”

You don’t reply. His free hand traces wide, shakey circles on your chest. “Oh, Hajime… is there something you don’t want to tell me? Maybe you Super High School Levels aren’t perfect, hm?”

Heat curls in your stomach, and you swallow hard. “Don’t — Don’t phrase it like that.”

He giggles quietly into your neck. “Why not…? Have I finally found the Great Hajime Hinata’s —”

“Stop.” You shake your head, bring your hands up to his waist. Your lean and pull him to the side, make eye contact with him. “We are bringing you to the doctor and you cannot stop me.”


End file.
